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Nor was this all. He had been invited to dinner by Mrs Clayton Vernon, the social leader of Bursley. In the affair of the Festival Mrs Clayton Vernon loomed larger than even she really was. And this was due to an accident, to a sheer bit of luck on her part. She happened to be a cousin of Mr Herbert Millwain, the leader of the orchestra down from London. Mrs Clayton Vernon knew no more about music than she knew about the North Pole, and cared no more. But she was Mr Millwain’s cousin, and Mr Millwain had naturally to stay at her house. And she came in her carriage to fetch him from the band rehearsals; and, in short, anyone might have thought from her self-satisfied demeanour (though she was a decent sort of woman at heart) that she had at least composed “Judas Maccabeus.” It was at a band rehearsal that she had graciously commanded Gilbert Swann to come and dine with her and Mr Millwain between the final rehearsal and the opening concert. This invitation was, as it were, the overflowing drop in Mrs Swann’s cup. It was proof, to her, that Mr Millwain had instantly pronounced Gilbert to be the equal of London ‘cellists, and perhaps their superior. It was proof, to her, that Mr Millwain relied on him particularly to maintain the honour of the band in the Festival.

Gilbert had dashed home from the final rehearsal, and his mother had helped him with the unfamiliarities of evening dress, while he gave her a list of all the places in the music where, as he said, the band was “rocky,” and especially the ‘cellos, and a further list of all the smart musical things that the players from London had said to him and he had said to them. He simply knew everything from the inside. And not even the great Merazzi, the conductor, was more familiar with the music than he. And the ineffable Mrs Clayton Vernon had asked him to dinner with Mr Millwain! It was indubitable to Mrs Swann that all the Festival rested on her son’s shoulders.

IV

“It’s freezing, I think,” said Mr Swann, when he came home at six o’clock from his day’s majestic work at Toft End. This was in the bedroom. Mrs Swann, a comely little thing of thirty-nine, was making herself resplendent for the inaugural solemnity of the Festival, which began at eight. The news of the frost disturbed her.

“How annoying!” she said.

“Annoying?” he questioned blandly. “Why?”

“Now you needn’t put on any of your airs, John!” she snapped. She had a curt way with her at critical times. “You know as well as I do that I’m thinking of Gilbert’s hands…. No! you must wear your frock-coat, of course!… All that drive from the other end of the town right to Hanbridge in a carriage! Perhaps outside the carriage, because of the ‘cello! There’ll never be room for two of them and the ‘cello and Mrs Clayton Vernon in her carriage! And he can’t keep his hands in his pockets because of holding the ‘cello. And he’s bound to pretend he isn’t cold. He’s so silly. And yet he knows perfectly well he won’t do himself justice if his hands are cold. Don’t you remember last year at the Town Hall?”

“Well,” said Mr Swann, “we can’t do anything; anyway, we must hope for the best.”

“That’s all very well,” said Mrs Swann. And it was.

Shortly afterwards, perfect in most details of her black silk, she left the bedroom, requesting her husband to be quick, as tea was ready. And she came into the little dining-room where the youthful servant was poking up the fire.

“Jane,” she said, “put two medium-sized potatoes in the oven to bake.”

“Potatoes, mum?”

“Yes, potatoes,” said Mrs Swann, tartly.

It was an idea of pure genius that had suddenly struck her; the genius of common sense.

She somewhat hurried the tea; then rang.